


The Dwarf

by EvilFuzzy9



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bleak, Depressing, Dwarf, Gen, Metaphors, Seriously This Is Just A Horribly Gloomy Thing Churned Out In A Fit Of Pique, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9093844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilFuzzy9/pseuds/EvilFuzzy9
Summary: Love of a thing can become hate with the passing of time, and the expenditure of years can weigh a soul down into the dust.





	

Under the mountain, in the deeps of the earth where no feet strayed, slowly and unhappily worked the Dwarf at his forge. He curled his fingers 'round the grip of his hammer, and he felt the sweat bead 'pon his brow. He gazed in anger at the lump of iron, red and glowing in the heart of the coals. He hated it, and he hated this forge, and he hated himself for wasting his time, spending the days of his miserable life in this miserable place, laboring in vain on pointless trifles.

No more hope did he feel as he worked, no more gladness at the slow shaping of his medium, at the gradual unfolding of his heart's designs. Clumsy seemed all the work of his hands, and misshapen the iron and silver and gold. All his effort came to naught here, where was only the memory of wasted years, a squandered youth spent in the folly of dreams.

Why did he stay? Why did he continue to strive in this meaningless task?

Making was vain, all creation pointless, if it could bring to the maker no pride or satiety, and yet in the Dwarf were neither of these, and in his work he could see only fault, only flaw, only the foolishness of his own stubborn soul. He would accomplish nothing worth the loss of chance, he would make nothing to propitiate the lonely years of his labor. His craft meant nothing, all the contrivance of his mind small and shallow.

He worked, and he worked, the Dwarf at his forge, hating everything in his life as he worked. Once, this labor would have made him content, would have given him the gladness of a job done well. When he was young, and when the dreams of youth seemed to him more real than the warnings of wise age, he could have and would have reveled in this work, seeing only the growth of his skill and his craft, yet knowing no limit and conceiving no end to the joy of his labor.

Now he knew better: he had seen his best, and he found the plateau beyond talent's peak to stretch unto the end of sight. All joy had left him long ago, all the pride of his work now turned to resentment, seeing that he could do nothing great, nothing so high and worthy as once had been dreamed. All was senseless, pathetic mediocrity with no point or purpose beyond spending the days of a worthless life. All his labor was but preoccupation, a distraction from the futility of his being and the inevitability of death, and now this distraction gave neither peace or gladness. It could no longer satisfy or content.

It was now all truly, finally _vain_.

He gazed into his forge as his beard grew longer, his brow more creased and his hair more gray. The strength seeped from his grip as the years passed by, bleak and monotonous with nothing left but empty labor. The dwarf felt old, far older than deserved, far older than truth by many an age. His heart was grim, his thoughts bleak and bitter. On he labored, ever more deeply hating the choice of his youth and the on-going of his age, ever more fiercely abhorring himself and his work. His shoulders sagged and his back was pained and bowed. He thought with bile on the pointlessness of his work, and he looked with dismay at all the fruits of his labor.

Misshapen they looked to his eye, ugly and ill-fashioned with no meaning or purpose worth sharing, worth giving. He hated it all, despising everything that his life had led to, and yet seeing no hope or chance to turn from this path, too little and too late all his anger proving. No joy was left to him, no hope, no dreams. His life was gray and meaningless, a slow and plodding march into a cold, lonely grave far under the mountain, in the deeps of the earth where no feet strayed.

It was a hateful existence, and vain. Vain, vain, _vain._ Why did he labor on, continuing to make these purposeless things? Nothing fair or worthwhile was in his power to make, nothing novel, at least, or deserving of praise. He was alone in his misery, alone in his labor, _alone_. The solitude of creativity, which once he had sought, proved now to be the tomb of his soul, smothering him in sorrow for all the years he had wasted.

His life he whiled away regretting the life he lived not, hating himself and his craft and all of his choices. He was the Dwarf, and alone he worked far under the mountain, stooping in the dark of deep places lit by only the fire of forge, the prison of his mind and dreams. Too deeply was he set into this place, and too far down this path had he come. No way was there out of this ashen pit, no exit to be found in all the bare stone walls of his small and darksome hole.

Long he labored in making nothing, nothing that seemed worth the lengthening years of his labor, always further less than his hope and desire, always below what might have redeemed his efforts. All the value of his being was in his work, for all his life he had spent upon it, but nothing of value had come of his labors, nothing but regret and resentful remembering. What value, then, could be in such a life as he lived?

Yet on he worked, ever on, despairing of life and fearing death, clinging still to life and continuing on down his hopeless path. This was who he was, and he hated it bitterly, but he could not free himself from it. All the end of his slowly nurtured skill seemed the smithing of a chain to bind him in darkness, all his creation but dead weight dragging him down into the choking ash of his forge.

The fires burned low, waning in the decline of years. The Dwarf drooped and wilted at life's extreme, withered bone and weary sinew all that remained of a body once whole and hale. He was alone, drifted far from all that once he had known, sundered by the flow of time remorseless, hating those who lived glad and hopeful in the flower of youth as he saw loom ever closer the end of his work and yet found still no worth or purpose in all the years of his life.

Vanity, despair, and bitterness. His beard was as white as fuel burned to the last, his face sallow and hanging in folds. His eyes were dim and occluded, all his vision blurred to a vaguest sense of fading color. Weak he felt in every sense, and living pained him past enduring, but still he clung to the world and his labors, hoping perhaps in the last free corner of mind to accomplish something worth his long and lonely life.

But nothing would come of it. Nothing ever came of it. Nothing _could have_ come of it. What could be made to equal the waste of this life, what could buy a last worth and gladness from this slow and miserable being? Nothing within the power of the Dwarf's wit and limbs, not were he timeless and ten times as great, with all the memory of age and fire of youth.

Vain was his labor, vain his contriving, and vain the expense of his life in this place, bleak and lonely and bitter. He could do nothing, nothing to excuse these long years of work, nothing to deserve the squandering of his days. His craft could never have made anything worth the time of learning and making, nothing to make his life a thing for others to remember.

It was, from the first, all in vain. Or that was how he deemed it, as the last strength left him and he toppled into the ashes of his forge, cold and gray. With a final shudder of breath he expired, surrounded by all the worthless reminders of his lifelong failing.

All his work meant nothing. All his labors had come to an end, fruitless, at the last withering of his life, alone, with none to mark his passing, and none to recall him in love or gladness. Alone he was, and worthless, accomplishing nothing to the very last hour of his life. All his work was nothing but the vanity foolishness of one who overreached their skill.

It was vain, vain, _vain_.

Yet how might it seem to those who might uncover it, in days still far off, revealing for the first time to eyes other than those of their maker the strange and marvelous treasures of the Dwarf? What tales would be told of his works in after years, and what wonder would be stirred in the hearts of beholders, what melancholy gladness to see the sorrow and the beauty fey of a strange and lonely soul preserved against the ages in metal and in gem?

It was a hopeful thought, and the last he ever had within the bounds of the living world.

But even this hope was bitter to him, who now left all things of life, and little peace did he feel in departing. With no new eyes would he see his work, and with no new ears would he hear kindly speech, and with no new flesh would he feel the touch of ones dear and beloved.

His forge was his grave, and his home was his tomb. His bones would lie forever amid the hoard of his craft, the hated fruits of his empty labor, without even gnawing rats or burrowing maggots to relieve his death's loneliness.

All was dark, all was ash, burned down and smothered far under the mountain, in the deeps of the earth where none ever strayed.


End file.
